


HTLV-III

by Aaron_The_8th_Demon



Series: Love Is A Different Kind Of Pain [6]
Category: Twin Peaks
Genre: Depression, HIV/AIDS Crisis, Heavy Angst, Ignores Season 3, Lodge dodge, M/M, Sickfic, Terminal Illnesses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-29
Updated: 2020-08-29
Packaged: 2021-03-06 17:27:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 9,767
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26182639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aaron_The_8th_Demon/pseuds/Aaron_The_8th_Demon
Summary: Harry has never wanted anything before as much as he right now wants to keep letting Dale lean the rest of the way in and kiss him. But he can’t do that, and pulls away enough to get the message across: wait.“Coop, this isn’t a great idea for you.”“Why’s that?”Harry swallows. “Dale, I have it,” he whispers. “And I don’t want anyone else to catch it from me, especially not you.”
Relationships: Dale Cooper/Harry Truman
Series: Love Is A Different Kind Of Pain [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1718449
Comments: 16
Kudos: 16





	1. 1984

**Author's Note:**

> I'm so sorry.

It feels like the flu, except… more.

Harry doesn’t remember the last time he felt so _awful._ He could lie down and die right now, probably, sweating and with puffed up glands all over his body. He’s been like this for over a week and nothing’s clearing up. He called out sick from work the last four days. By this point, he’s so miserable that he actually does go to the hospital to see Doc Hayward and get checked out. It’s kind of a bad idea, he shouldn’t be driving like this… maybe he should’ve called an ambulance on himself… nah. It’s not like it’s anything that serious.

Harry staggers into the hospital on aching joints and weak muscles, reports his symptoms from a hoarse throat to a nurse. For awhile he’s sitting and waiting in a chair until they collect him for his spontaneous appointment. The usual things, blood pressure, weight, all that good stuff - and it turns out he’s almost fifteen pounds lighter than normal. That’s weird, and he wonders how he didn’t notice until now. They take his temperature and confirm that he has a fever.

Doc Hayward feels all of his lymph glands, looks in his ears and eyes and throat. He describes the horrible night-sweats he’s been having and untucks his shirt to show the rash on his stomach. That’s when things get alarming, because Doc Hayward looks very suddenly and intensely concerned.

“Harry, when you were on vacation two months ago, where did you go?”

“Away,” he says, vaguely.

“Away where?”

“I was in Seattle.” He really doesn’t want to say what he was doing there, or with whom. “Why? If I caught something there, it would’ve showed up immediately, right? So how’s that related?”

“Maybe you haven’t heard, but there have been some odd reports in medical journals over the last couple of years,” Doc Hayward answers, slowly and looking uncomfortable. “Harry, I need you to be honest with me when I ask this question… while you were there, were you… were you at any point having… sexual contact with other men?”

How does he know? How can he _possibly_ have found that out?!

But Harry’s a bad liar. “Yeah, I… yeah.” He watches the floor. “Just once.”

“Did you use any protection?”

“What, you mean rubbers?”

“I know you know what I meant. Please answer the question.”

“Yeah, I was wearing one.”

“I see. Now was that for the entire time? Did it break?”

What the hell is with these questions right now?

“The first one did, I put another one on.”

Doc Hayward nods slightly. “We’re going to run some blood tests, first today and then another set in three months. You should… mentally prepare yourself now for the possibility of an unpleasant result. In the journals, there have been an increasing number of discussions on an unusual immune deficiency that’s predominantly found in homosexuals. They keep trying different names on it, first it was called GRID and now I’ve usually seen it referred to by HTLV-III. We’re going to check you for that, among other things. Your symptoms are too unspecific for us to be sure without laboratory testing.”

Harry really doesn’t like this. He has no idea what most of that means, but it still scares him somehow.

* * *

The rain is pounding down as Harry dashes out to his mailbox on the end of the driveway. He opens it, stuffs everything inside his wool jacket, closes it again and runs back to his house. Despite the hurry, he’s not in any way eager to find the hospital envelope that’s buried in the center of the pile. His fingers shake and he can’t open it. The first test was inconclusive back in July when he got sick for five fucking weeks straight… now, in October, he’ll know for sure. But Harry doesn’t want to. He doesn’t want to know. He’s only thirty eight years old, and he’s not interested in learning that he might be dying this afternoon.

Harry drops the envelope on the counter and goes for his phone.

“Hello.”

“Hawk, it’s me.”

“What’s up?”

“Can you… uh, can you come over? There might. There might be something wrong and if there is I don’t think I can handle it on my own.”

“I’ll be there in ten.”

Thank god for Hawk, he’s such a good friend, a steady and calming presence. He’s Harry’s best friend and favorite employee, and he won’t be judgmental if there is something nasty in that hospital letter because he already knows that Harry sometimes likes to fuck other guys. Back then, he’d helped Harry make peace with it, talked about how souls want what they want so Harry shouldn’t be ashamed of anything. He’d quoted something he’d read in college by a German guy whose name neither of them could remember: Man can do as he wills, but he cannot will what he wills. If Harry is bisexual there’s nothing to be done about it, it’s simply a fact that has to be accepted and moved on from.

Hawk shows up in six minutes, not ten. He must’ve been speeding.

“I can’t open this,” Harry admits, holding up the offending object that’s causing him so much distress. “I can’t do it. It might say… Hawk, what if I’m sick?”

“Then you’ll go back to Will and get some drugs prescribed probably,” Hawk shrugs, as calm and unshakeable as ever. “Here, you want me to do it for you?”

Harry swallows and after a second nods, embarrassed that he’s so chickenshit about this. “Yeah.”

It’s pulled out of his hands, carefully torn. Harry squeezes his eyes shut and tries to breathe slower so that he doesn’t get dizzy. He’s so scared of this piece of paper that they sent him and he waits for Hawk’s verdict. And waits. And waits some more. Eventually he realizes it’s been way too long, which is a really bad sign, and opens his eyes again.

Hawk watches him in silence. Also not a great indicator.

“Well?” he whispers.

Hawk slowly sets down the letter. “It says you have an immune disease called HTLV-III and to call an immunologist in Spokane for a consult as soon as possible.”

Harry almost throws up.

“I’m gonna die.”

“No, you’re not gonna die,” his best friend insists. “They’ll load you up on medications or something.”

“What medications?” Harry shouts, suddenly angry. “This is some brand-new disease that just popped up a couple years ago! There isn’t anything for it yet! Nobody knows what the hell it even is! Will couldn’t explain a god damn thing to me the last time I asked him about it…”

“Harry, try to calm down. You’ll be okay eventually, they’ll figure something out.”

“But what if they don’t?”

“They will,” Hawk insists. “There’s no reason for them not to.”


	2. 1987

“I still can’t believe he’s dead,” Harry comments as the blood pressure cuff comes off.

“The town’s so shaken up about it, he left everything to his wife… a lot of people think it should’ve come back to Catherine instead.”

“She’s not gonna be happy about that,” he guesses. “And now Ben’s probably gonna double down on tryna get the mill, too.” He pauses and takes a breath while Doc Hayward scribbles something on his chart. “Will, you wouldn’a had me come in if there wasn’t something going on, would you?”

“It’s good news this time,” he promises. “The FDA has approved a medication for treatment of HIV, it’s expensive but I ran everything through the hospital’s ethics committee and if you get it through the pharmacy here instead of the one in town it’ll only cost you about a third of the actual price. Once you’ve been on it for about four weeks, you’ll have another appointment so we can check in and see how well it’s working for you.”

“Thanks, Doc.”

“Now, you’re still taking proper precautions, right?”

“I haven’t been seeing anybody lately… how can I even explain this to them if I was? I’ve tried a couple times, and it turns out having a contagious lethal disease is a really unattractive quality to have.”

“Well, if you ever do meet someone, you know to be careful.”

“Yeah.”

* * *

Blood tests, blood tests, and more blood tests. In the last three years Harry’s been stuck more times than a damn pincushion. At least they always pick a different vein, so he doesn’t have any permanent holes in his body.

Today, he’s weak and tired in a way that has nothing to do with having to shovel out his driveway before coming to his appointment. His breaths don’t feel deep enough and he’s been getting lightheaded… none of these are new problems. It’s the damn AZT, it’s making him sick. He’s anemic and myopic and he can’t sleep well anymore, he pukes a lot at random moments. He’s currently suffering his second cold in three months. They might put him on another medication that’ll make him grow more red blood cells.

For this appointment, there actually isn’t a blood test, which is weird because they almost always do labs on him when he comes in these days. Instead he came home from work yesterday to an ominous message on his answering machine from Doc Hayward, calling him in today to discuss the results from the last test they did to check his viral load. Harry’s not excited for this, because any time he gets a call right after they do labs, it means they found something bad. It hasn’t happened all that often, but it does happen, and he’s sick of new problems cropping up like this.

“Morning, Doc.”

“Good morning, Harry. How do you feel today?”

“Like I got stepped on,” he says dryly. “Alright, what is it this time?”

“I have some bad news.”

“Yeah, I figured.”

“Your viral load is increasing again and your CD4 is down to 425 per microliter. But you’re also on the highest tolerable dose of azidothymidine.”

He buries a rough cough in his elbow before replying. “Okay, so… now what? Are there any other meds?”

“Not at the moment, no. And considering the severity of the side effects it’s been causing you, there isn’t much point in you continuing to take it now that the virus is almost fully resistant. Right now, our options are mainly to treat complications as they arise. Other than that all I can tell you to do is the same things I’d tell a patient with any other disease, which is to try to eat healthy foods with lots of vitamins. But you should also do your best to avoid anyone who’s visibly sick, because you’re now at the second stage and you’re officially immunocompromised.”

Harry doesn’t want to know the answer to the question he’s about to ask. “Does this mean… am I dying, now?”

“No, you’re not dying. We’ll only have to start the serious worrying if your CD4 goes below 350.”

Not if, but when. It’s going to happen eventually and they both know it.

“Okay. So I just stop taking it right away?”

“Yes, you can get rid of your unused medication. And I think it might be a good idea for you to tell anyone who’s important to you what’s going on. It’s important for anyone who has a long illness like this one, don’t wait for yourself to get critically ill before letting your family know. At least give them some time to come to terms with everything. Then, if you do become extremely sick, they won’t have to be shocked.”

What this means is Harry going home to toss all his AZT in the trash and then pretty much stay on the phone for the rest of the day. He can wait to tell Hawk until tomorrow when he’s at work, so first he calls his brother. In the middle of explaining, it hits him now even though it’s been more than three years that he really actually does have a terminal illness, and at least Frank is nice enough not to tell him to shut up right away when he starts crying. After that conversation he calls his mother next - and both of them cry.

Harry doesn’t want this… maybe that seems obvious, but he doesn’t. He doesn’t want to have to worry about people standing too close to him when they sneeze, and he doesn’t want to wait for the inevitable phone call from his father berating him and calling him a faggot, and he doesn’t want to make his mother cry like this.

Harry doesn’t want to be dying.


	3. 1989

Dale can hardly contain his giddiness as he marches into the station this morning - he has papers in his hand and a huge smile on his face, and he can’t wait to tell his friends the good news. Especially Harry. He’s going to inform Harry first before anyone else.

“Good morning, Agent Cooper. You look like you’re feeling better.”

“Good morning, Lucy! Yes, in point of fact, I’m much improved now that I’m no longer confined to intensive care, thank you.”

She knows what he’ll ask before he says it. “Sheriff Truman is in his office and he’s not very busy, so you can go talk to him if you want.”

“Thanks, Lucy.” Dale doesn’t even stop to take off his coat and just barges into Harry’s office without knocking (the door is open, but still). “Harry! I have something very exciting to report to you.”

His friend’s eyebrows raise, surprised and curious. “Okay. What’s up, Coop?”

Dale glances to the door and closes it, then holds up the papers in his hand. “This is a transfer request, the Bureau has approved it and sent it back to me today. I’m being reassigned to the Seattle field office and I’ll get to stay here in Twin Peaks.”

Harry grows a big grin to match his own. “That’s great, congratulations! Did you put in for this while you were in the hospital? It’s so soon.”

“As a matter of fact, I did,” he nods, finally removing his coat and dropping it into a nearby chair. “When you’re confined to a hospital bed, you often find you have plenty of free time.”

“Yeah, I guess so.” Some minute undertone of Harry’s expression changes… it softens, just slightly, a different flavor of joy beyond happiness over a friend’s success. “I’m real glad you’re staying, Coop. It hasn’t even been that long but the town would already feel different without you.”

Dale almost admits it right then and there, but before he can senselessly blurt out even one syllable Lucy interrupts them.

“Sheriff Truman, the donuts have finally arrived, and I gave them a lecture about being late with the order but I don’t think they appreciated it very much even though they deserved it.”

Harry snorts and presses the button. “Thank you, Lucy.”

They share a look and without further discussion decide to indulge themselves with the newly-arrived pastries. Over a dozen pink boxes await them in the kitchenette.

“An excellent way to celebrate,” Dale comments before taking a bite out of a Boston crème.

“So how soon is your transfer?” Harry asks, reaching for a knife to cut his donut in half.

“Essentially it can be considered immediate. I’m still technically on medical leave, so I’ll use that time to search for a place to take up permanent residence here.”

“You still paying for that room in the Great Northern?”

“Yes, I don’t mind it there… fortunately Ben Horne didn’t raise any issue with my keeping that room unavailable even during my hospital stay.”

Dale takes another bite and Harry looks over to him. “You wanna just come stay with me for a little bit instead? Then you won’t have to keep paying.”

“Oh, I don’t want to be intrusive,” Dale says automatically.

“Coop, you’re not being intru-AAAAGGHHH!” Harry yelps, yanking his hand back from the counter. “God damn sunuva  _ bitch! _ ”

He’s gushing blood and clutching one of his hands in the other as the offending knife clatters to the linoleum. Dale reaches for a roll of paper towels.

“Put pressure on it, I can clean this up.”

“No,” Harry barks, suddenly wearing an expression that’s nothing short of terrified. “No, you won’t. Put that down and back up.”

“It’s just blood, Harry-”

“No it’s not, you need to go  _ right now _ so you don’t get any on you.”

Dale wasn’t aware that Harry had any phobias, but that’s what this appears to be, so he elects not to press the matter. Instead, he stands at a slight distance and watches while Harry performs first aid on himself, mops up the blood, and proceeds to not only throw away the open box of donuts but also bleach practically every surface in the kitchenette. He washes his hands, trying to avoid the bandage while doing it, and then opens a fresh box of donuts while shaking his head slightly, seemingly at himself.

“Are you alright, Harry?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine.” An obvious lie. Dale doesn’t call him out on it. “Sorry about that, Coop.” His hands tremble slightly before he rests them on his pistol belt. “So, about that hotel room…”

“It’s not a problem, Harry,” Dale insists. “And it won’t be for much longer anyway, I’m perfectly capable of continuing to pay.”

“If it’s not gonna be that much longer, then it’s not any kinda problem if you wanna get outta there. The bed in my guest room is actually nicer than the one I sleep on.”

He allows a smile to play across his face, despite sensing that this invitation is being extended in part because Harry feels lonely. “Alright, Harry, far be it from me to reject your hospitality.”

Harry grins back. “Great.”

Clearly, Harry is not aware of Dale’s feelings. This is going to be difficult.

* * *

Dale has no concept of personal space anyway, but right now he’s sitting  _ way _ too close to Harry on the couch. And there’s that thing he does, that kind of unnerving thing, where sometimes he just  _ knows _ stuff. He’s going to look at Harry and know.

“Harry, is there something I’ve done to make you uncomfortable?” Dale asks.

Yep. There it is.

“Not exactly,” Harry says, because he doesn’t know how to answer that really.

His friend looks concerned. “What’s wrong?”

“I don’t wanna talk about it.” He’s only seen Dale express interest in women. “It’s not even anything important.”

Dale studies him. This was a bad idea, and Harry even knew it was a bad idea at the time. He doesn’t know what the hell made him push so hard to get Dale to stay over with him for a little bit, because this exact situation is not what he wanted to happen. But two days ago, he couldn’t stop the words from coming out of his mouth. Now look where he is.

“Harry, I think it would be a very good idea for you to talk about whatever it is that’s bothering you so much.” A hand on his shoulder. “If possible, I’d like to help you fix it.”

“It’s not really…” Harry shakes his head. “It’s not fixable, Coop.”

Apparently that’s all Dale needed to put the pieces together. “You’re attracted to me.”

Harry breathes. “Yeah.”

“That’s not a problem, Harry.”

Harry has never wanted anything before as much as he right now wants to keep letting Dale lean the rest of the way in and kiss him. But he can’t do that, and pulls away enough to get the message across: wait.

“Coop, this isn’t a great idea for you.”

“Why’s that?”

Harry swallows. “Dale, I have it,” he whispers. “And I don’t want anyone else to catch it from me, especially not you.”

There’s no need to clarify. “It” is perfectly easy to understand.

“Oh,” is all Dale says, followed by almost five straight minutes of silence and both of them watching the floor.

Finally, Harry decides he should keep going. He might as well get it all out in the open, since they’re already here.

“I’m not on meds for it, either. I used to be, but they stopped working. So. I’m mostly waiting for the inevitable now. I’m gonna keep working as long as I can, and obviously I’m not seriously sick yet. But I will be, probably in a couple years. I’m not gonna be around very much longer.”

In the corner of his eye, he can just barely make out Dale nodding. “There’s a significant amount of research that’s taking place… it’s entirely within the realm of possibility that more effective treatments or even a cure will be uncovered in the near future.”

“I don’t believe that shit,” Harry scoffs. “How long has cancer been around? Or diabetes? We don’t have cures for those, either. Coop, I’m gonna die sometime in the next few years. Most’a the time, I can be kinda okay with that now. It’s just a fact. I don’t like it, but there’s nothing I can do, so I don’t worry about it that much, either. And I’m responsible for it, I know I’m dangerous for other people. You saw that a couple days ago at the station.”

Silence. Then, slow movement… Dale reaches for his hand, takes a gentle hold on it. Harry squeezes back lightly.

“That doesn’t mean you should have to spend that time alone,” Dale finally says in a quiet and slightly unsteady voice. “Will you allow me to spend it with you?”

Harry finally turns and looks at him again. He doesn’t look scared (nothing ever scares Dale apparently), only sad and helpless. He wants to fix the unfixable like always.

“…okay,” Harry agrees finally. “But just - you gotta agree to a couple things first.”

“Alright.”

“I don’t wanna hear anything about vaccines, treatments, cures, any’a that. This is just the way my life is, I’ve more or less accepted it by now, and I just want the whole topic to get left alone.”

“I see.”

“The second thing is, if you end up feeling like you can’t handle whatever new awful thing pops up, then I want you to leave. Don’t stick around just ’cause you think you have to, Coop. You don’t have to and if it gets to be too much I don’t wanna keep you here suffering, okay?”

“Yes, I understand. Was there anything else?”

“Just one more thing. We’re not having sex.  _ Ever. _ This happened to me because one condom broke  _ once. _ It’s just not a risk I’m willing to take with you, your life and your health.”

“Statistically speaking-”

“Hey,  _ no. _ This isn’t up for discussion, Coop. Those are my terms.”

Dale looks like he  _ really _ wants to argue about that, but he doesn’t. “Alright, Harry.”

“Okay. Good.”

Harry pulls him over and hugs him. Dale’s head rests on his collarbone, and they sit like that for awhile… and it’s nice.


	4. 1991

“How is it?” Dale asks when he’s sure Harry has finished reading the letter.

“My CD4’s hanging in there at 375, so I’m not in the third stage yet,” Harry answers shortly prior to being wracked with a hideous cough. He gets up from the kitchen table and spits presumably phlegm into the sink with a noise of irritation and disgust. “Coop, tell me: is it really so god damn much to ask that I go more than a month without catching fucking pneumonia again?” he gripes as he sits.

So far, at least, it’s being kept in check. Harry has viral pneumonia and then secondary bacterial pneumonia on top of it, which means he’s been prescribed antivirals and antibiotics. Dale hands him a glass of orange juice and both of these medications to take with his cereal.

“You’re looking better,” he comments. “Yesterday you were significantly more pale, you’ve almost returned to your normal color.”

“Good. Hopefully it won’t show in the pictures.”

They eat, and then spend a significant amount of time getting dressed, mainly because Harry does not usually wear fancy clothes and so Dale has to instruct him at points in how to piece together a tuxedo. There’s a certain amount of irony to be felt about this occasion, because technically what they’ll be doing today is illegal. He’s optimistic that gay marriage will become legally recognized in his lifetime, it seems inevitable, even if it’s not something that happens today or next year. He also hopes that a cure for HIV will be found, though of course he never speaks to Harry about that because Harry asked him not to.

“Alright, you’re done,” Dale announces after doing his bowtie for him. He steps back and smiles. “Absolute perfection, Harry.”

Harry snort-laughs at him. “If you say so, Coop.”

Making their way to the truck, Harry has a coughing fit, so Dale gets in the driver’s seat instead. Neither of them are particularly interested in the local organized religion, so this already-invalid ceremony will not be taking place in the church… after some amount of arguing and also pointing out that Ben Horne was perfectly willing to accept his money before now, Dale managed to secure the Timber Room at the Great Northern for today’s proceedings (a fact he’s quite proud of himself for achieving).

“Alright, you’re going to sit and do nothing while the rest of us get everything ready,” Dale orders, plunking Harry down in a chair by the bar. “Focus on breathing correctly and let me handle things.”

Harry chuckles with a fond look in his eyes. “Okay, Coop.”

Dale bends in and kisses Harry’s forehead briefly before hurrying out to the elevator in the lobby - his timing is impeccable and twenty seconds later Albert emerges.

“Did you sleep well?”

“No, that mattress is lumpier than mashed potatoes,” Albert grumps before lighting a cigarette. “It’s still a difficult concept for me to grasp that  _ this _ is the best you think you can do for yourself, Cooper.”

Dale knows he doesn’t actually mean that and so doesn’t get angry over it. “Albert, be happy for me that I’m happy, that’s all I ask.”

Albert gives him a look drenched in sarcasm, like  _ you have MET me before, right? _ to indicate that Dale should know better by now than to expect genuine happiness or contentment.

The crankiness of his best man is inconsequential and he chooses to ignore it going forward. In general, nobody expects him to actually help move anything, considering he’s already in his tux and also the one who will actually be getting married today, but he does provide careful direction at points when he isn’t running back and forth to the lobby to retrieve guests.

An old lady with a cane and a man in a cowboy hat holding the door open for her: “Alright, take’er easy, there’s a little bit of a threshold there.”

“I wish he would’ve found a nice girl,” the woman complains, likely not for the first time. “I wanted more grandchildren.”

The man rolls his eyes and groans. “Mom, stop it. He’s real sick, there ain’t gonna be any grandchildren anyway.”

Dale approaches and holds out a hand. “You must be Frank.”

“Yeah.” Frank shakes. “And you are…?”

“Dale Cooper.”

Mrs. Truman appraises him and then nods. “Oh,  _ now _ I see. It’s because he’s cute.”

Dale frowns and notes Frank’s eyes rolling for the second time. “Mom…”

“Are you taking good care of my son?” she demands, eyeing Dale slightly more harshly.

“Yes, ma’am, I put in my best effort.” Dale glances around. “Excuse me for asking, Mrs. Truman, but where is your husband?”

“Probably passed out drunk at home,” she says dismissively, waving the hand that’s not on her cane.

“I see. Well, the Timber Room is this way, Harry’s already there if you’d like to see him before everything starts…”

The general fuss gradually escalates, but ultimately dies again in time for the proceedings to begin. Standing in front of their friends and family members, Dale for a moment forgets that the man who effectively stole his heart right from his chest and is in possession of the other half of his soul is technically terminally ill. Even in such a short span as a few minutes, that knowledge drops away from his mind, blocked out by the feeling of Harry’s hands in his.

Per Dale’s instructions, the common line about people’s final chance to object to their marriage is omitted in its entirety, and instead of saying “you may now kiss the bride” which had to be changed for obvious reasons it’s “you may now kiss each other.” They kiss, and despite being brief, it’s perfect.

The moment the opportunity to do so presents itself, Dale begins stuffing himself with cake. Andy wanders about the room taking pictures for a few minutes while people are eating and laughing. Denise berates Albert for being so grumpy. Hawk and Frank are engaged in a lively conversation about something, but it’s inaudible over the background noise. Harry is tired-looking, but also happy - and annoyed, because his mother is relentlessly fussing over him and he clearly does not appreciate that because he’s forty five years old and doesn’t need it.

At some point, while Harry is out of the room for a few minutes (probably to relieve himself), Frank sits next to Dale.

“I’m sorry about my mother.”

“It’s fine,” Dale smiles. “It’s readily apparent that she’s only interested in the health and safety of her youngest son.”

“She worries about him constantly, it hasn’t stopped since he told her… but you are, right? You take care of him and look after him?”

“Absolutely. He’s doing as well as can be expected, and I make my best effort to ensure that that doesn’t change,” he promises. “And I also appreciate your concern, even if Harry believes it’s unnecessary or embarrassing. Thank you for asking.”

Frank nods. “Y’know… he ever needs anything, or you need help, my number is listed somewhere in his office. Gimme a holler.”

“Thank you, Frank. I will should the need arise.”

Harry returns and groans when he sees them speaking to each other. “Oh, lord, do I even wanna know what the hell you two are talking about?”

“It’s fine,” Frank grunts, standing up and slapping his brother’s shoulder. “You enjoy yourself, this day only happens once.”


	5. 1993

“9-1-1, what is your emergency?”

“I need an ambulance,” Dale practically shouts into the phone, shortly followed by their street address. “Adult male, severe respiratory distress, non-ambulatory. Please hurry.”

This isn’t usual and it’s frightening. Any other time Harry’s gotten sick, Dale could simply make an appointment with Doc Hayward, and his husband would get seen the next day. Harry’s been noticeably ill for several weeks now, and prior to this had been given antibiotics for yet another in a series of lung infections. Yesterday, he’d been complaining that his breaths didn’t feel right, and his throat was hoarse from coughing. So Dale had posed the idea that in the absence of the ability to shout across the house, if at any point Harry decided he needed immediate medical intervention and Dale wasn’t in the vicinity, he should start clapping his hands. That will be their signal: call an ambulance.

He’d done so while Dale was in the kitchen making coffee for breakfast.

While waiting for the paramedics, Dale rushes back into the bedroom and proceeds to prop up Harry’s upper body on a stack of pillows to help ease his breathing. It only works to a point, Harry is still wheezing and coughing and gasping for breath.

“It’s alright, Harry, the ambulance is on its way,” Dale murmurs, aiming to be soothing. He holds Harry’s hand. “You’ll go to the hospital and they’ll help you there. It’ll be alright.”

Harry shakes his head. “…can’t breathe…” he rasps.

“I know, it’ll be better very shortly. Try to relax, it’ll help.”

Dale notes - Harry’s lymph nodes are swollen again and he’s sweating, obviously feverish. His temperature has been running amok for over a week. This is Dale’s fault. He should’ve insisted on another doctor’s appointment instead of allowing Harry to lie around at home without immediately seeking treatment.

The paramedics arrive. Harry is first put on oxygen and one works on him doing other things while the second asks Dale a series of questions. It’s readily apparent to everyone that this is a de facto medical emergency, Harry needs to be taken to the hospital right away. Would Dale like to ride up with them in the ambulance or follow after in his car? He chooses to go with them.

It’s not unexpected, though it is upsetting, that Dale loses track of his husband shortly after they arrive. Whatever interventions and procedures will take place are things he likely wouldn’t enjoy witnessing anyway, but being separated when he knows Harry is in distress feels almost physically painful.

After several hours, Doc Hayward appears in the waiting room, sitting on Dale’s left.

“How is he?”

“We admitted him right away, he has a unilateral pneumothorax without an obvious cause. During the examination we also found that his liver and his lymph nodes are enlarged, and a chest x-ray showed us some… concerning results. We’re testing him for extrapulmonary tuberculosis.”

“What are his treatment options?”

“We’ll give him antibiotics, and we’ve mitigated the pneumothorax, but his CD4 is down to 220 and the level of infection looks severe. Cooper… I know this isn’t pleasant to think about, but by this point it’s advisable to get his affairs in order. He’s in my office every other week with lung infections as it is, and now, needing to be hospitalized…” Doc Hayward sighs quietly and rests a hand on Dale’s upper arm. “It’s safe to say that he’s reaching the end. By my estimate, the way things are going, I’d say he has a year or so left. You should both have grief counseling, and you specifically should do your best to mentally prepare yourself for what’s ahead. Once his CD4 is below 200, it’s progressed to full-blown AIDS and he’ll pass away relatively shortly after that. But it’s going to be very uncomfortable for him and there isn’t that much we can do besides give him morphine and emotional support, and treat various symptoms as they arise.”

Dale swallows but his mouth and throat are parched. “How long will he be here?”

“A few days, probably. If it is tuberculosis, he’ll have IV antibiotics and we’ll do what we can to get his symptoms under control. You should know, though, that when we admitted him he signed a DNR.”

“A what?” Dale desperately hopes that that isn’t what he thinks it is.

“Do-not-resuscitate. If he goes into arrest while under our care, we’re now legally required to make no attempt to revive him.”

“Is that likely?”

“I don’t think so, at least not at the moment. Agent Cooper… he didn’t ask you to bring him here in order to get better. He wanted an ambulance because he knew we could ease his discomfort. Try to understand that, please. He’s almost ready for it to happen.”

Dale nods. He hates this.

“Can I see him now?”

“Yes, but you need to wear a mask, he may be infectious. In fact, it would be a good idea for you to have an antibiotic prophylaxis so that you don’t also catch whatever we find in his lungs.”

Shortly following, Dale is tying a disposable procedure mask over his face and coming into a single-bed ICU room. Harry seems even more obviously unhealthy than usual - he’s been losing weight recently anyway, likely due to his waning appetite, and appears almost dwarfed under the loose hospital gown and pile of blankets. There’s an IV in his left hand, electrode leads spackling his chest under the gown, and an oxygen feed in his nose. He looks exhausted.

“Harry, why did you sign a DNR?” Dale asks softly as he sits down beside the bed.

“Coop… I’m not really alive anymore,” Harry croaks. “People don’t… they don’t live like this. I can’t live like this.”

He’s suffering so terribly. Dale feels helpless.

“I’m going to call your brother and let him know what’s going on,” he decides.

The look on his husband’s face is nothing short of depressed. “I wish you never met me sometimes.”

“Why?”

“’Cause I know this sucks for you, too. Dale. You listen to me when I say this - I’m gonna die soon.” Harry pauses to obviously stifle a cough. “I know you’re not okay with that… and… I’m putting this on you. If you never came here, you’d be with somebody else who’s not on their way out…”

He devolves into a coughing fit and stops talking. It’s utterly baffling to Dale that given the circumstances Harry is still somehow more concerned with anyone else other than himself. He deserves exactly none of what’s happened to him, of what’s still happening to him. Dale will never understand why the most good and kind people so often endure such magnitudes of undue cruelty.

“Regardless of how I feel about it, Harry, I’m already here and I won’t leave,” Dale promises after thinking about this for a moment.

“You don’t have to if you don’t want,” Harry wheezes. “If it’s too much…”

“In sickness and in health,” Dale reminds him. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“But you’re gonna have to live with this forever, now.”

“Yes, I know. Then I’ll live with it. Harry, I refuse to entertain the idea of you dying alone,” he insists. “It’s unnecessary and morbid.”

“Are you okay?” Harry whispers, rapidly losing his voice.

“Whether I’m okay or not is completely irrelevant to the situation. I love you.”

“I know… I love you, too.”

Dale picks up his hand and lifts the procedure mask in order to kiss his knuckles.


	6. 1994

The first purple spot appears on his chest.

Harry notices it when he’s taking a shower. He hopes to god it’s just a bruise, please _please_ let it be just a bruise. Doc Hayward told him to watch out for skin changes, which is one thing on top of a whole pile of things that he’s supposed to pay attention to these days… Harry doesn’t really see the point. He has full-blown AIDS, he’s gonna die sometime in the next six to eight months. He’s already got wasting syndrome and is losing his ability to eat food. But he remembers that one thing, skin lesions, a weird disfiguring kind of cancer. He has a doctor’s appointment in four days… he’ll wait until then to bring it up.

Maybe that’s a mistake. Because in those four days, five more appear - mostly on his chest and back, but there’s a big one on his neck, under the right corner of his jaw and crawling up towards his ear. These red-purple blotches don’t hurt when he touches them, but they’re unnerving. The one on his neck is impossible to hide and Harry starts going out of his way to avoid looking in the mirror.

This doesn’t stop after his appointment. Over the next few weeks his skin explodes into lesions, and then he finds one in his mouth, on the inside of his cheek… that one _does_ hurt, and that’s when Doc Hayward finally gives up and puts him on IV nutrition because trying to eat with tender, swollen lumps that rub on his teeth is pretty much impossible. His lymph nodes grow to the size of eggs, and meanwhile the rest of him is shrinking until he’s even skinnier than Dale and his flannel shirts hang off his shoulders like they’re on a coat hanger instead of a person.

By now, he’s an invalid… there’s no other word for it. He’ll die soon. Sometimes he wakes up because he can’t breathe, which means sucking on an oxygen tank for a few hours while lying in bed. Eventually they put him under and do a bronchoscopy because it doesn’t seem to be TB-related and discover that the sarcoma lesions are starting to grow inside his lungs. When that gets found, Doc Hayward wants to admit him again, but Harry refuses. He knows he’s circling the drain. He’d rather die at home, in his own bed and without all the poking and prodding.

Dale never leaves him for a minute. Harry knows he should probably be grateful but he actually really hates that, his husband is chronically sleep-deprived because of him, always running around doing everything, anything, whatever possible to help him be less uncomfortable. Harry hates how much Dale loves him, because he’ll be leaving Dale with this. This big awful thing. He knows Dale will never get over it once he’s gone, and by now that’s the only thing left that’s making him reluctant to die.

Every night, falling asleep, he thinks the next morning won’t come. And every morning he wakes up, disappointed to be opening his eyes.

* * *

“Hello?”

“Good morning, Frank, it’s Cooper.”

A sigh. “How’s he doing?”

“He’s getting there,” Dale answers. “It won’t be very much longer. If you intend to drive up and say your goodbyes, I’d recommend you do so immediately.”

“Yeah. Alright, I’ll be over before noon tomorrow. Do you need anything?”

Frank always asks that.

“No, but thank you anyway. Have a safe drive up.”

“Thanks.”

Dale hangs up and then begins the next task on this morning’s list; he swipes the IV port with alcohol, draws the allotted amount of morphine into the syringe, injects it into the fluid line, and disposes of the trash. Harry immediately breathes out heavily through the oxygen mask and visibly relaxes, eyes rolling back and closing briefly. Dale wants this to end… it’s not a life, but an endless torment. He spontaneously decides to forgo the rest of the morning routine, all the medicines, and instead climbs back into bed, gently cuddling his husband.

“Harry, you should sleep some more if you can.”

“I…”

“Yes?”

“Coop…”

“What, Harry?”

“Can I go, now?” he asks, his words a labored, rasping wheeze.

Dale doesn’t stop to think about it. “Yes,” he murmurs, kissing Harry’s forehead. “You may go whenever you like. I’m right here, all you need to do is fall asleep.”

“Okay,” Harry whispers, and closes his eyes.

It isn’t a long process. Dale can tell when he’s asleep, and then when he slips into full unconsciousness. His heartbeat gradually winds down, his breathing is obviously more difficult. Dale lies still, holds him. Harry deserves to be in someone’s arms and loved through this…

A little over an hour later, everything has stopped. Dale feels the last breath leave and at that moment a very unnatural stillness seems to drape itself across every object in the house, Dale included. It feels like a crime that he should move, should do anything at all. He almost believes for a second that he should cease to breathe himself.

Dale does not stop breathing. He has things to attend to, now.

“I’ll be right back,” he promises, as if there’s anyone around to hear him say it.

The oxygen tank is turned off because it’s technically an explosion hazard to simply let it gush out into a room. He calls the hospital and reports, then calls Hawk, who will call everyone else. After that, Dale walks through the house and stops every clock he finds.

It’s 8:05 in the morning when his husband dies.

* * *

Dale has some objections to the fact that Harry will be having a traditional Christian funeral - mainly that Harry stopped believing in god when he was a kid and, as he put it at the time, “saw religion for the crock of bullshit it really is.” However, he has very little say in the matter, because their marriage was illegal and so Frank is listed as next-of-kin… and Frank was more or less bullied by his mother into making it this way.

Shortly beforehand, Dale goes to the hotel first - he’s meeting Albert there on his friend’s request, though he’s not entirely sure as to the reason. An elevator ride to the third floor, a knock at room 324. Albert lets him inside and doesn’t say anything at first.

Everything here is off. Albert isn’t snarky, he isn’t disrespectful. The eyes that meet Dale’s are sympathetic, empathetic, and incredibly sad. None of those things fit on this cranky, abrasive man. That’s what really makes it sink in, the situation ceases to be plastic and turns real for Dale. _Harry is gone._ Albert would not be behaving this way otherwise.

“I’m sorry, Coop,” Albert says.

And that’s all it takes to absolutely break him. His eyes blur, his throat closes, his breathing becomes disordered. Dale is vaguely aware of a thin whine escaping from himself before he jumps straight to all-out bawling, which elicits arms around his back and a shoulder to rest his face against. He buries his tears in Albert’s suit jacket as everything seems to burst out of him at once. There’s no stopping it.

Only the knowledge that they’ll be late if he doesn’t regain control of his faculties enables Dale to get a grip on himself. He strongly caps his emotions again, to be reopened and acknowledged later at a less inconvenient time. Albert puts on a clean jacket and they go there together… Harry was disfigured enough by the sarcoma to warrant a closed-casket funeral, just a portrait of him to look at. Lucy and Albert sit on either side of Dale and hold his hands in theirs through the duration of the service. Overhead, the clouds threaten rain, as if to mimic the somber mood of the occasion.

On the tombstone:

 **HARRY S. TRUMAN** **  
****May 13, 1946 - November 4, 1994** **  
****Beloved Husband And Son**

In the corner a rendition of the Twin Peaks Sheriff’s Department crest is engraved as well.

Sitting here, surrounded by family and friends and coworkers, Dale feels so very alone. None of them were present to witness the long torture that preceded this point, and while he’s very aware that that’s how Harry wanted it - for as few people as possible to observe those terrible, disgusting, and often grotesque moments - it also means there isn’t a single person present who can fully understand his current range of emotions. There are the usual suspects, grief and related things, but also a very morbid and sick sense of relief. In the final weeks, Dale had been unable to do anything besides concur with how Harry himself felt about it… both of them had been desperate for the needless, horrifying pain to cease.

One thing that does stand in solidarity - Harry is so very loved, by so many people. Dale is in no way the only one who will miss him.


	7. 1996

The phone is ringing again.

Dale ignores it.

He isn’t interested in who’s on the other end. It might be Hawk, or Frank, or Lucy, or Albert, or Denise, or Andy, or Ed, or Norma, or Gordon. Dale absolutely does not care which one of them wants his attention. He’s supremely angry and depressed at the moment, has been for the past nine weeks in fact, and has no desire to hear any of them “checking in to see how he’s feeling.” It should be blatantly obvious how he feels, and his strongest desire is to be alone.

One year and one month after Harry died, a new medication for the treatment of HIV became available. This is, of course, good news, but Dale finds it troubling that technically speaking Saquinavir was patented in 1988. Harry was not yet dying or even approaching critically sick at that point, and had this drug only been released sooner, it’s entirely possible his husband would be alive and maybe even healthy. Dale reserves the right to be upset about that.

Until November, Dale somehow had managed to forget just how unbearably excruciating the first anniversary of a loved one’s death can be. He’d believed himself to be moving on some, recovering from the sense of loss. But the days on the calendar suddenly seemed to march right up to November 4th, and his head was filling itself with the gruesome images of Harry slowly dying in their bedroom, painted with skin lesions and so thin and weak that sitting up on his own practically left him gasping for breath. Dale’s mother, and later Caroline, had been snuffed out suddenly, their lives severed by abrupt illness or injury. Harry had suffered a torturous decline, and Dale had witnessed every moment of his agony.

This feels so much more difficult. Dale had still sought love after Caroline, but he knows he won’t this time. The wedding band on his finger, no matter how illegitimate it is in the eyes of the law, may as well have been surgically grafted to his skin and will never come off. With Caroline, it had been weeks upon weeks of pining, secretly drawn to a woman he’d never anticipated having. Dale knew Harry for months and then loved him for years. This is a monumental loss, and it will never leave him.

When the memories grew to be insufferable nearing the end of October, Dale had relocated and begun sleeping in the guest room because it was simply too painful to lie in their bed alone. The door to their room stays closed, he only goes inside to retrieve articles of clothing for himself. On the actual anniversary, Dale impulsively called Gordon and resigned. Gordon tried for over an hour to talk him out of it, then Albert took a turn, and finally Gordon simply begged. Dale refused to hear either of them. He’s been unemployed since, though the house was paid off before Harry became noticeably ill and the utilities are reasonable. Dale barely eats these days, so his grocery budget is about $30 per week including coffee. So far, his savings have only negligibly been dipped into.

Currently, Dale sits on the couch, drinking a glass of water. He’s been in this set of pajamas for the past three days and has wrapped himself in Harry’s plaid wool jacket while watching a heavy wet snowfall through the window. All the lights are off, and so he’s still and quiet in the relative dark, only pale grayness shining through from the clouded sky outside. His existence is the emptiest it’s ever been and he sees no need to change that.

The phone rings again. Dale maintains his refusal to acknowledge its presence. They can call all they like, he isn’t going to pick up. He’s also disconnected the answering machine, so after almost a full two minutes whoever it is gives up and the house is silent once more.

It makes the sudden introduction of a loud pounding on his front door all the more startling - Dale jumps so hard he almost falls off the couch.

This, somehow, does not seem like something he can just let sit. Setting aside his water, Dale stands and goes over to open it… and is completely unprepared to find Margaret Lanterman standing there, bundled for the weather with a brown grocery bag in one arm and her Log in the other. How she knocked at all is a mystery.

“Good afternoon, Margaret,” he greets, feeling some threads of awkwardness escape into his tone.

“May we come in?”

“Alright.” Dale stands aside and closes the door after her, then flicks on the lights and winces. “What can I do for you?”

“My Log has something to tell you,” she announces, stomping into his kitchen in her wet snowboots and setting down the objects she’s carrying on the table. “You haven’t been eating well.”

“I’m in a difficult mental state at the moment.”

“I have soup.”

“Oh, I appreciate the gesture but it’s not necessary, I have food.”

“We’ll eat the soup first,” she insists, ignoring his protests, “and then proceed.”

Dale gives up trying to argue and instead sits at the table, pulling Harry’s jacket closer around himself and watching her heat some type of vegetable-beef soup on his stove. It doesn’t take long before she’s spooning it into two bowls and then sitting across from him.

“Thank you,” Dale says, accepting his helping and looking it over. Admittedly, the smell is so rich it alone could probably fill him up, and that makes his mouth water. He discovers - beef, potatoes, onion, carrot, inside an intensely delicious broth which he would hazard a guess contains not an insignificant amount of butter and tomato paste.

“My husband died the night after we were married,” she starts, and Dale immediately feels himself deflate. He’s not in the mood for this conversation. “He was a fireman… the woods burned, and he was pushed into a ravine by the owls.”

“I’m sorry for that.” It’s the only thing he can think of to say.

“The dead do not leave this forest,” she continues, as though he had said nothing at all. “Their spirits linger here and find a presence. I felt Sam’s presence in one of the Douglas firs that were felled by the flames. Most people are not aware of where the dead watch us from. Garland Briggs is sometimes able to notice, and so are you.”

“Does Harry have one of these presences?” Dale whispers, refusing to be hopeful.

“He’s left a trace of himself,” Margaret informs him. “A location, or an object. But you must attune to it. Until now you’ve been fighting against it instead because you didn’t understand.”

“Where?”

“Finish your soup.”

He obeys, realizing she won’t answer any more of his questions until his bowl has been emptied.

“Is this presence a permanent fixture?”

She frowns at him. “It’s not what you think it is.”

“But you speak with your husband through your Log,” he says, working not to sound desperate. “I would like to speak to Harry.”

“It’s not what you think it is,” Margaret repeats. “I do not speak to the Log. I interpret what it knows. No-one may truly speak with the dead.”

“But Laura spoke to me in my dreams,” Dale argues. “I saw her several times, she attempted to impart information to me…”

“That’s different.”

“Why?” he demands.

“Laura Palmer chose to let her life be ended. Her soul was not at peace.” Where Dale has grown louder, Margaret’s volume has softened in contrast. “Your husband was ready to die, and so his soul isn’t adrift.”

Oh. Dale failed to take that into consideration.

“Margaret, please, tell me what to do. My understanding of the workings of the spiritual world here is still elementary.”

“There isn’t anything to be done. Don’t you think it should be good enough to know that he’s at peace and didn’t face the same restless fugue as Laura?”

“No, that’s not good enough!” Dale snaps, then realizes what he said. “I’m sorry. I miss him so much.”

She shakes her head at him, likely out of pity.

“You’ll always miss him.”

“Yes.”

“But he _is_ at peace. There’s more than a little comfort knowing that should give you. It’s up to you, now, to find a way to be at peace for yourself on his behalf.”

* * *

This is the only time Dale can ever recall feeling nervous about entering the station.

“Agent Cooper!” Lucy practically shouts when she sees him come in. “Everybody’s trying to talk to you but you won’t pick up the phone and we’ve been really worried!”

“Yes, I know. I’m sorry for that,” Dale says. “Is Frank here? I need to speak with him.”

“He’s on a call but he should be back in a few minutes, you can wait in his office.”

“Thank you, Lucy.”

Dale removes his coat and hat before going in to sit. In over a year, Frank has changed almost nothing about the layout of this room, which Dale finds at the same time comforting and distressing somehow.

When Frank does arrive, he looks very surprised.

“Hey, Coop. Where’ve you been hiding?”

“At home, usually. I’ve been having a difficult time recently.”

“Yeah, we all kinda figured. How’re you doing today?”

“About the same. Margaret came to see me yesterday. I’m not coping well.”

“I heard you quit your job.”

“Yes… I was feeling especially irrational at the time. But my mental state is so poor that I don’t believe I would’ve been able to continue on with the Bureau anyway.”

“Do you have enough money? You need any help?”

“No, I’m alright.”

Frank nods. “Well, if and when you decide you wanna start working again, there’s a job here for you if you want it.” He pauses. “Can I ask you something, Coop?”

“Alright.”

“You don’t have to answer this if you don’t want, but. When he… when it happened, how come you didn’t call me sooner? He was already gone by the time I got here.”

“I thought he had more time. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be, it’s okay.”

And Dale realizes, very suddenly, that Frank is also not coping with this.

“If it helps, it was very quiet and peaceful, and I had just given him his medicine. He wasn’t in pain.”

Frank nods and rubs his face in such a way to indicate exhaustion while leaning back in his desk chair. “Y’know, when he first found out he had it, he called me… and he was so scared. You ever heard a grown man cry over the phone, Coop? It’s awful. I was all the way across the state from him and I couldn’t do a god damn thing to help. And for awhile, every time we talked, I could just _hear_ that in his voice, the whole thing was just hanging over him all the time even if he wasn’t talking about it. Then one day he called to tell me about you… first time I heard him sound happy in years, like he got to forget for a little bit that he was sick. So this might sound weird, but I actually wanna thank you for that. I think… the whole thing could’a been so much worse for him if he was alone through it. If he didn’t have you there to take care of him.”

Dale nods without saying anything… he thinks he can understand, now, how he can begin to cope. It won’t be today or tomorrow, but eventually, he will. Because he loves Harry, and he knows Harry had loved him back so much. And Harry would probably want him to cope.

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah so... my relationship just ended. Naturally that translates to "kill a loveable character who absolutely doesn't deserve it."
> 
> All my Twin Peaks fics can be found [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works?utf8=%E2%9C%93&commit=Sort+and+Filter&work_search%5Bsort_column%5D=revised_at&include_work_search%5Brelationship_ids%5D%5B%5D=127943&work_search%5Bother_tag_names%5D=&work_search%5Bexcluded_tag_names%5D=&work_search%5Bcrossover%5D=&work_search%5Bcomplete%5D=&work_search%5Bwords_from%5D=&work_search%5Bwords_to%5D=&work_search%5Bdate_from%5D=&work_search%5Bdate_to%5D=&work_search%5Bquery%5D=&work_search%5Blanguage_id%5D=&user_id=Aaron_The_8th_Demon).


End file.
